


Things You Cannot Choose

by Fox_In_A_Box



Series: Gotham Daemons [2]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Daemons, Families of Choice, Fluff, Friendship, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:13:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22321633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fox_In_A_Box/pseuds/Fox_In_A_Box
Summary: "Friends, Martin, are nothing but a betrayal waiting to happen," he told him, pacing back and forth around the office with the aid of his walking stick. "That's why I don't want you to think of me as a friend. We're much more than that, we're co-conspirators. Allies.""Dramatic," his dæmon  had remarked after Mr. Cobblepot and his dæmon had left them alone, with the promise to come back in a few days' time. Martin had chuckled, nodding his head in agreement. "I don't understand, what's so bad about being friends?"Martin didn't know.Or; in which Martin and his dæmon are looking for a friend but end up finding a family instead.
Relationships: Martin & Edward Nygma, Oswald Cobblepot & Martin, Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma
Series: Gotham Daemons [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1762885
Comments: 26
Kudos: 89





	1. Mr. Cobblepot

**Author's Note:**

> A few useful notes for people who are unfamiliar with the "His Dark Materials" book series and/or with the concept of daemons in general.
> 
> \- Daemons are the physical manifestation of people's souls in the form of talking animals. During childhood, a daemon can change their form on a whim, switching between basically any animal species. When a human reaches psychological maturity (usually anywhere between 12 and 18 years of age) their daemon will lose the ability to change and "settle" as the animal that better represents their human's behaviour and personality.
> 
> \- Daemons are usually of the opposite biological gender of their human's, even though exceptions aren't unheard of. A person and their daemon are connected by an invisible bond that prevents them from getting too far from one another.
> 
> \- There are many rules concerning daemons, the most important of which is that you DO NOT touch another person's daemon. That is because touching another person's daemon is considered to be an extremely intimate gesture (I mean, it's like someone reaching out to touch your literal SOUL) which can also be traumatic if it's done with violence or ill intent. Another common social rule states that daemons don't address other humans directly. Basically, during conversations, daemons talk to daemons and people talk to people.

"This way, quick!"

Iphigenia ran ahead of him, fast and sleek in her black cat form. Martin stumbled behind her, slowed down by the weight of the backpack he was carrying in his arms. When they found a nice little spot behind one of the ornamental trees, away from the peering eyes of their teachers and classmates, he dropped it to the ground and took out the matches and bottle of paint thinner he needed in order to carry out his revenge. It had been incredibly easy to steal the two items from the janitors' cupboard. Sometimes, being the quiet, lonely kid no one cared to talk to in class had its perks.

Martin carefully unscrewed the cap and poured some of the liquid onto the backpack before striking the first match, Iphigenia's nervous voice constantly urging him to hurry up lest they be caught red-handed. Setting his bully's backpack on fire would no doubt earn them the worst punishment yet, even worse than that one time their English teacher had struck him across the knuckles with a wooden ruler when he had allowed his dæmon to answer a question for him.

"Come on, before they notice we're missing from the playground!"

Unable to hide the self-satisfied smirk forming at the corners of his lips, Martin raised the match, already anticipating his classmate's shocked face when he would find his notebooks reduced to a pile of ashes.

"Boy!"

Martin stopped dead, his right hand holding the match still outstretched and hovering over the stolen backpack. He couldn't see the face of the person who had called out to him, but he was sure that it wasn't one of his teachers. It wasn't a janitor, either. In fact, he didn't even remember hearing that voice before.

Iphigenia, who up until that moment had been walking in anxious circles around the tree they had chosen to hide themselves from the rest of the orphanage, looked up towards the windows above their heads. "Do we know him?"

Martin turned around.

"Yes, you," the stranger went on. "Come here this instant!"

Martin complied, only because there wasn't much else he could do. He dropped the match, snuffing the small flame with the heel of his shoe before approaching the window. Iphigenia jumped, shifting mid-air into a bird, and landing on Martin's shoulder. "We're in trouble, aren't we? I told you it was a bad idea..."

Martin let out a defeated sigh.

As he raised his eyes, he was met with an unfamiliar face. His first impression had been correct - he wasn't a teacher nor one of the rich benefactors that visited the orphanage every now and again, all fake smiles and kind words, pretending to care about what happened to him and the other children. With spiky dark hair and piercing eyes, it was a face Martin was pretty sure they wouldn't have been able to forget if he had seen it before. The small black shape standing beside him behind the glass must have been his dæmon, but because of the reflection of the window it was hard to tell what kind of animal she was supposed to be.

"What do you think you were doing?"

Martin felt that Iphigenia was about to answer, so he nudged her with the back of his hand. No need to add to their already dangerous position. Instead, he reached for his notepad. The stranger didn't seem impressed by his drawing of a campfire, the best picture he could come up with to summarise his intentions.

"Yes, I can see that, but _why_?" The man pressed on. "Why set your friend's backpack on fire?"

Martin shook his hand vehemently. That boy wasn't his _friend_. None of the children running around in the playground was. While some of the newcomers hadn't yet tried to steal his books or fill his shoes with toothpaste, it wouldn't be long before they'd tag along with the older kids. That, or they were too busy being the new targets for the bullies that had somehow gotten tired of playing nasty tricks on him.

He raised one hand as if to apologize for his misunderstanding. "Alright, alright. Not your friend, then. In any case, you cannot do things like that," a pause, he glanced over at the other kids, who in the meantime seemed to have found another victim to torment. "Your enemies will know it was you."

Martin blinked, unsure of what the stranger meant. Or rather, knowing all too well what he was talking about but having no idea of why he was offering his _advice_ instead of reprimanding him for his misconduct.

"I thought he was going to scold us...?" Iphigenia murmured, voicing his doubts out loud.

"Come up here," the man ordered.

The kid and his dæmon had no other choice but to obey.

"My name is Oswald Cobblepot," the man who had put a premature end to their little adventure introduced himself. "This is my dæmon, Adél."

To Martin's surprise, there was no one else in the office. Not Miss Sofia, ready to offer him a disappointed look and ask him why he didn’t get along with the other kids, not one of his teachers, waiting to administer his punishment along with a tedious lecture about good manners.

Mr. Cobblepot was waiting for him alone, leaning back against the big wooden desk that took up nearly half of the room. His dæmon was a penguin. Not one of those tall, majestic ones with yellow spots around their throat Martin had seen on TV, but rather a smaller species he didn't know the name of. She stood beside her human, watching Martin and his dæmon with her tiny black eyes.

Iphigenia mimicked her, taking the shape of a penguin herself. She waddled forwards to greet Mr. Cobblepot's dæmon with a polite bow of her head. The man's dæmon did the same, not sparing a single word. It was just as well.

"And you are...?"

Martin hasted to write both his and his dæmon's name on the first page of his notepad, then turned it over for Mr. Cobblepot to read.

"Good," he said, gesturing to the empty armchair sitting in front of the desk. "Take a seat."

Martin, still holding his notepad in both hands, did as he was told. A moment later, Iphigenia came up to rest on the armrest in the form of a cat, a Siamese this time, curious blue eyes fixed on the other man.

"Revenge is never as simple as a mere tit-for-tat. Revenge must be specific in nature," he began. Martin leaned forward in his chair to be sure to pick up his every word, as he had the feeling that whatever this strange man was going to tell him was going to be very interesting indeed. Iphigenia's ears perked up. "Now, when you imagine revenge against your juvenile tormentors, what do you see?"

The crude drawing of a boy with several knives sticking out of his body, lying dead in a pool of his own blood didn't seem to shock him. He quirked one eyebrow, then exchanged shot his own dæmon a brief glance. The penguin-dæmon looked back at him, before they both returned their attention to Martin.

"That-- might be a little overly ambitious, don't you think?"

"Overly ambitious?" Iphigenia muttered under her breath. "Should have seen what Brad and Ashley did to your clothes the other week."

Martin prayed in silence that Mr. Cobblepot hadn't heard her. If he did, he decided to ignore her in favour of addressing him once more.

"There are other, subtler ways to hurt people," he said. Then he paused, looking away for a moment as if in search of inspiration. "Or perhaps...yes, I think you could use a few henchmen. I can see you're a clever young man, Martin. You protested when I called them your friends, earlier, but friendship can be an incredibly deadly tactic. I can teach you how to turn your bullies into precious assets. Would you like that?"

Martin's eyes went wide. And to think that he had walked into the room bracing for a punishment! He could feel Iphigenia's excitement, a perfect echo of his own.

Mr. Cobblepot chuckled at the big "YES" he hastily scribbled on the front page of his notepad. "Perfect. Now tell me more about them."

As they walked down the stairs to reach the classrooms on the ground floor of the building, Iphigenia couldn't seem to be able to stand still. She kept fluttering her wings around him, first in the form of a butterfly, then a yellow songbird, then a bright blue parakeet.

"I can't believe he decided to help us! I take it back, trying to set Brad's backpack on fire was a great idea," she exclaimed. "Do you think he'll teach us how to trick them into beating each other up? I don't know about you, but I hope so. And his dæmon? She hasn't said a single word! Not like she should have talked to you, of course, but to me at least...do you think she speaks at all?"

She went on and on, to the point that Martin subconsciously tuned out her voice and her words became little more than background noise. Her enthusiasm was more than justified, though.

They had just made their first, real friend.

****

Or so they thought.

As it turned out, Mr. Cobblepot had a peculiar aversion for everything that had anything to do with friendship. After witnessing Martin put his newly acquired skills to good use and earn himself his first minion, he proceeded to give him a long lecture about the dangers of growing too attached to your subordinates and the importance of always, always making sure they knew their place.

"Friends, Martin, are nothing but a betrayal waiting to happen," he told him, pacing back and forth around the office with the aid of his walking stick. "That's why I don't want you to think of me as a friend. We're much more than that, we're co-conspirators. Allies."

"Dramatic," Iphigenia had remarked after Mr. Cobblepot and his dæmon had left them alone, with the promise to come back in a few days' time. Martin had chuckled, nodding his head in agreement. "I don't understand, what's so bad about being friends?"

Martin didn't know.

It hardly mattered. He and Mr. Cobblepot were friends in all but name and if referring to their friendship as an _alliance_ instead was the small price he had to pay for the invaluable secrets he had promised to share with him, then so be it.

After that, Mr. Cobblepot came back to visit him and Iphigenia quite often.

During his first visit, he taught him how to blackmail his peers. He made him practice with collecting as many embarrassing anecdotes about his classmates as he could - an operation in which Iphigenia assisted by turning herself into the tiniest of bugs, to buzz around the other kids unnoticed and undisturbed. Mr. Cobblepot rewarded him with a pat on the back, when he came back to him with a notebook full of jucy informations, which he proceeded to explain when and where and how best to use them to his advantage.

The second time he arrived at the orphanage to meet him, they spent the entire afternoon practicing weapons. Martin's eyes threatened to burst out of his sockets and Iphigenia couldn't help but let out a yelp of surprise when Mr. Cobblepot produced a long, razor-sharp blade from the silver handle of his cane. Martin held it with reverence when it was offered to him and he was encouraged to try and stab an imaginary enemy. By dinner time, he had almost mastered the deadly technique.

Furthermore, as Iphigenia had been quick to discover, Mr. Cobblepot's penguin dæmon _did_ speak. Only she was quiet and reserved and even when Iphigenia managed to talk her into a conversation, while their respective humans were busy scheming against the playground bullies, her voice was so low that Martin couldn't pick up a single word she said.

The third time they were summoned to the office for another lesson on the art of trickery and subterfuge, Martin hesitated in finding the door had been left ajar. He thought about knocking anyway, to make sure Mr. Cobblepot wasn't otherwise engaged, but that was when something else caught his attention.

Through the narrow opening, he could hear the sound of two voices - one of them belonged to Mr. Cobblepot, for sure, but the other was one he didn't immediately recognise. It took him a few moments to realise that it probably belonged to Adél, his dæmon.

"I don't understand why we have to be so cold to him. He's just a kid."

"He's old enough," Martin heard Mr. Cobblepot reply. "We're doing him a favour. Maybe he doesn't understand it just yet, but he will when he gets older."

"He just wants a friend. We were always good at lying, why can't we pretend to be his friends to his heart content? It would make him happy."

"Do I need to remind you what happened the last time we had a friend?"

There was a long sigh before the dæmon spoke again. "That was a long time ago."

"Still, I don't want him to make the same mistakes I did. Is it cruel of me? Of us? Wanting to spare him the pain of seeing his friends turn against him, stab him in the back, take away everything he has?"

"I don't know, Oswald. But one thing I _do_ know and that is--"

"I know Mr. Cobblepot taught us how to eavesdrop without being caught but it doesn't seem fair to use it against him," Iphigenia chastised him, fluttering her wings around his head to distract them from the conversation on the other side of the door. "We really shouldn't it, Martin."

Martin swatted at her, but she was quick to dive out of his reach. In retaliation, she started to fly in circles around his head until, trying to get her to stop, Martin ended up losing his balance. He stumbled and, in reaching forwards with his hands to brace himself, he crashed against the door. The commotion caused by his clumsy entrance interrupted the conversation between Mr. Cobblepot and his dæmon. When he regained his balance, he found them both looking at him.

"Martin! I didn't notice you there. Please, come in." Mr. Cobblepot said, once he was able to shake the surprised expression off his face. "There's something I want to discuss with you."

Martin took his usual spot on the armchair. Mr. Cobblepot waited for him to get comfortable before starting to explain.

"Remember what we learned about the dangers of friendship? It pains me to tell you that Miss Sofia has broken my -- no, our trust. Now, I need you to do something for me," he said, lowering his voice so that he was almost whispering. "Something dangerous, but very important. Can I trust you?"

Martin nodded emphatically. For the first time since they'd met, a genuine smile graced Mr. Cobblepot's features.

"Very good."


	2. Riddler

Ever since meeting Mr. Cobblepot, Iphigenia had taken a liking to bird forms.

Like she had learned to do the very first day of their stay at the orphanage, though, she made sure to stick to tiny ones to shield herself from the fangs and claws of the other kids' dæmons, rowdy creatures running around the playground in the form of dogs, big cats and the occasional brightly-coloured parrot. Robins and sparrows could usually fit in the pocket of his uniform without too much trouble. It was one of her favourite places to rest, a vantage point from where she able to survey their surroundings, alerting Martin if something felt wrong. Sometimes, the species she chose were smaller still; songbirds and hummingbirds, making it seem as if Martin had no dæmon at all. Which was even better. No child, brave as they might be, would dare to approach someone without a dæmon.

Only when Mr. Cobblepot would summon him in Miss Sofia's office, would she dare to try out larger forms. Crows, and hawks, and barn owls, perched on the back of the comfy armchair he had Martin sit on as he monologued about the untrustworthy nature of human beings and taught him how to exploit their most crippling weaknesses.

More often than not, Iphigenia would get bored within the first few minutes and fly down to meet Mr. Cobblepot's dæmon. She would greet her with the respect that was due and they would chat along, while Martin learned how to bribe his less unsufferable classmates into protecting him from the bullies, how to craft a knife with spare objects he found around the dormitory, many, many other useful and interesting things that would go on to ensure his survival in the merciless world of Gotham City.

Martin didn't know what Iphigenia and Adél talked about during the long afternoons they spent in the office. He could only speculate. After all, ignoring Mr. Cobblepot's lessons in favour of eavesdropping the conversations between the two dæmons was hardly polite and he trusted Iphigenia to relay any interesting titbit of information as soon as they would be alone again.

She always did.

Come the evening, Iphigenia would crawl with him into their bunk bed, now in the form of a ferret, a cat, or anything fuzzy enough to keep him warm through the chilly nights of the orphanage, when the heating struggled to warm up the dormitory. As far as Martin understood, Mr. Cobblepot's dæmon shared her human's preference for fancy words and complex sentences; Iphigenia wasn't ashamed to admit that she was often unsure of what half of them really meant. But despite the language barrier, the general meaning was pretty clear.

Where Mr. Cobblepot refrained from talking about his past, his dæmon kept letting cryptic references to their previous life escape her beak, which she promptly shrugged off with a sudden change of subject.

Piecing together the clues Iphigenia had obtained from Adél with that strange conversation they had overheard from the other side of the door, they came to the conclusion that Mr. Cobblepot must have been the most powerful man in Gotham, at some point, even more powerful than he was now as unbelievable as it might have sounded. They deducted that he must have had a dear friend then, too, a friend who had betrayed his trust and let something horrible happen to their relationship. Mr. Cobblepot hadn’t seen him since.

In light of such discoveries, it wasn't difficult to understand why he went out of his way to scoff at the very idea of friendship and to make sure Martin didn't think of him as a friend, but rather as a mentor, as a powerful ally to guide him through his training. And even when he felt lonely and scared that Mr. Cobblepot would one day get tired of him and disappear from his life as abruptly as they had entered it, Martin was glad that he had decided to share his wisdom with him.

_"People are only useful as pawns, Martin_ , _"_ he heard the powerful echo of his words, repeating over and over in his head. _"Don't ever forget that"._

Those were the words that lulled him and Iphigenia to sleep, that left them dreaming of the empires they would build together thanks to Mr. Cobblepot’s generous teachings.

Which made the appearance of the man in green all the more puzzling.

"Uncle Penguin sent me to get you," he explained, a gloved hand outstretched towards him.

Martin hesitated, squinted trying to get a better look at the impossibly tall man standing before him. Iphigenia was a bright yellow goldfinch, digging her small talons in the soft fabric of his woollen vest. Martin could sense her unease, matching his own.

"Didn't he say that he trusted no one?" She murmured right by his ear. Martin grabbed his trusty notepad and began scribbling down a question. A question which was destined to remain unanswered, at least for the time being, as the sound of a new, different voice distracted from the doubts accumulating in his mind.

"Edward! They're almost here! Grab the kid, we have to go!"

It took him a few seconds to realise that the voice belonged to the man's dæmon, who up until then had remained hidden behind her human's legs and the cloud of smoke slowly filling the entire room. Martin could see her now, in the form of a fox with thick reddish fur and a pair of dark eyes that kept shifting between her human companion and the open window behind them.

For whatever reason, he was reminded of an old fable Miss Sofia had once read to him and the other children – the one about the cunning fox who tricks the crow into dropping a piece of delicious cheese down on the ground, so that she can eat it herself. Martin didn't know much about the psychology of dæmon forms, but right there and then he decided that someone with a fox for a dæmon should be a smart, conniving sort of fellow, capable of talking his way out of anything. The kind of person Mr. Cobblepot had warned him about. The kind of person who would smile and pretend to have his best interests at heart, only to stab him in the back the moment he let his guard down. The kind of person who would lie and cheat his way out of any trouble.

Iphigenia held on even tighter on to his shoulder. "I don't think we should follow him."

But Martin wasn't listening, he was too busy watching the stranger and his fox-dæmon. He felt drawn to them the way he had felt drawn to Mr. Cobblepot the day he had decided to teach him the art of making powerful alliances and crushing enemies under the soles of his shoes. Like with Mr. Cobblepot, something told him that he had so much to learn from the strange man in the garish bright green suit. An occasion he couldn't let pass by. Especially if the alternative was spending the rest of his life in captivity, with Iphigenia and Miss Falcone's men as his only company.

"Come on," the man urged him, oddly calm despite the chaos of angry voices coming from outside the building, growing louder by the second. "Let's get ice cream."

Martin took his hand.

****

Thirty odd minutes and a reckless car chase later, Martin and the strange man who claimed to be working for Mr. Cobblepot were sitting side by side on a bench, in the outskirts of town.

Now that he had a chance to study his unlikely rescuer up close, without having to worry about his captors catching up with them and dragging him back to the awful apartment that had served as his jail for the past few days, Martin found himself growing more and more interested in him and his unusual antics.

The fact that when getting him his promised treat he had bought one for himself too – mint and chocolate chips, to be precise – made him all the more interesting to his eyes. Martin had never seen an adult eat ice-cream. Or enjoy it so much, for that matter. The adults he had to deal with more or less regularly at school and at the orphanage were all so prim and proper, ready to cast disapproving glances at children they deemed rude or irresponsible. Even Mr. Cobblepot, as fond as him and Iphigenia were of him and Adél, always had an aura of cold authority around him.

The tall man with the fox for a dæmon was something else entirely.

"You like him, don’t you?" Iphigenia said. Martin gave a small shrug.

Sensing his intentions, she jumped down from his shoulder and shifted into a monkey with dexterous hands to hold his half-eaten ice cream cone while he fetched his pen and notepad. When he finished writing, he held it up for the man and his dæmon to see.

It simply read: EDWARD?

The man in green shook his head with a chuckle. "Only my dæmon calls me Edward. My name is the Riddler." The fox-dæmon let out a funny sound, between and a growl and a huff, the canine equivalent of an exasperated sigh. "And this grumpy old thing is Enigma."

Iphigenia gave him a look that didn't need any words. _That's not a real name._ Martin had to agree. He would have very much liked to inquire further about the the identity of the man Mr. Cobblepot had sent to their rescue, but there was something else he needed to know first.

He tore off the first slip of paper, setting it aside on the bench before starting to write once more, his ice-cream long forgotten. However, he soon found himself hesitating. There was no way he would be able to express his concerns into words, much less in words that could fit on such a small page. He tapped his chin with the end of his pen, thoughtful, until Iphigenia shifted again, a sparrow, to whisper a suggestion into his ear.

Martin thanked her with a quick smile and set to work. Once the drawing was complete, he showed it to Riddler, hoping that the penguin and the fox he had sketched beside the two human figures would be enough for him to understand who they were supposed to be.

"That is..." Riddler paused, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose. "A quite accurate depiction of me and Oswald. Holding hands."

Martin nodded.

"You want to know about my relationship with Oswald."

Martin nodded again.

"I'm an old friend," he said. For a moment, Martin had the impression that he was going to add something else, but he appeared to decide against it. His fox-dæmon shot him a glance and, when he didn't look at her back, turned her head away to stare at something in the distance.

"I thought Mr. Cobblepot didn't have friends," Iphigenia cut in before Martin could stop her. She had always been more talkative than him, speaking for the both of them when Martin could never bring himself to.

Two pair of eyes settled on her. Where Riddler was caught off guard, blinking at her in disbelief, his dæmon observed her with an air of ill-concealed curiosity, head tilted slightly to the side. Martin felt his cheeks heat up in embarrassment.

During his first weeks at the orphanage he had been chastised more times that he could count for his dæmon speaking out of turn or addressing a human directly instead of chatting quietly with their dæmon. Dæmons spoke to dæmons, not people. It was a rule everyone was expected to follow, always, at any time, and while it wasn't written anywhere but it might as well have been.

He braced for the inevitable reprimand, Iphigenia muttering a soft "I'm sorry" under her breath. But it seemed like their day still had many surprises in store. For one, the harsh scolding he was expecting never came. Riddler didn't seem offended in the least by his dæmon's misstep. The opposite, he looked _amused._

"And so she speaks," he remarked, the corner of his mouth bending into a grin. Then, noticing Martin's dumbfounded expression, he added: "I'm sorry. I wasn't making fun of you, I promise. What your feathered companion said is true, Oswald doesn't have friends. Or, at the very least, doesn't like to think he does. He sees other people as allies, at best, disposable pawns to help him win the game at worst. I was his closest friend, once. Then we--"

Martin couldn't help but feel a surge of disappointment mixed with surprise when it was the man's dæmon who spoke up, interrupting whatever Riddler had been meaning to say. "We had our peaks and valleys. It's a long story. Definitely not suitable for a boy your age."

Riddler clicked his tongue in mock-disapproval. "Now now, Enigma, is this the way to treat our little guest?" The fox-dæmon didn't answer, still Martin knew that she would have rolled her eyes if she could. "But you're right, a change of topic might be in order. It's my turn to ask a question, now: do you two like riddles?"

Martin and Iphigenia exchanged a look.

"My bones are made of clay and my hair is made of shingles. I swallow people whole, then I spit them out alive. What am I?"

"A house!" Iphigenia blurted out.

Riddler grinned. "Correct!"

The remainder of the afternoon was spent in a flurry of progressively more complicated riddles.

They soon discovered that Riddler's fox-dæmon was more talkative than her human, even more talkative than Iphigenia herself, if such thing was even possible. If she had been wary at first, she warmed up quickly to their presence once Iphigenia took it upon herself to showcase just how smart they were and, most important, how many obscure facts they had learned browsing through the tomes of school's extensive library. Once the ice was broken, it was easy for the two dæmons to slip into light-hearted chit-chat about ice-cream flavours first, then about the interesting proprieties of some chemical substances she and Martin had studied in science class.

And it was her who kept them company and illustrated the rules of the house once they got past the two guarding the entrance, while Riddler shed his green jacket and wandered about the kitchen, looking for everything he would need to prepare the most delicious plate of spaghetti he and Iphigenia had ever tasted. Nothing to do with the sticky, rubbery ones they used to serve at canteen of the orphanage.

Martin scarfed down his food without even taking a breath between one forkful of pasta and the other, causing Riddler's hilarity when he was forced to reach for a glass of water to swallow down everything he had stuffed in his mouth without suffocating. Afterwards he kept insisting, with no shortage of "please" and "pretty please with a cherry on top?" from Iphigenia, until Riddler agreed to show him how to cook a simpler rendition of the same dish with the few ingredients that were left in the cupboards.

After another round of riddles, which Martin and Iphigenia managed to solve with almost no help from their new allies, Riddler gently but firmly advised him to go to bed.

The safe house had three other rooms that had remained unexplored - a bathroom at the end of a short corridor and two bedrooms hiding behind closed doors, one on either side of that same corridor. They were instructed to choose whichever they preferred.

"The left one," Iphigenia suggested. He decided to indulge her.

As soon as his shoes were off and he had let himself drop on the soft mattress, Martin was crushed under the weight of the exhaustion he hadn't felt during the day only thanks to the adrenaline from their hectic escape from the clutches of Miss Sofia's men still running through his veins. As Iphigenia found a soft comfortable shape to curl up beside him for the night, he let his eyes flutter closed. Had it not been for the two voices coming from the living room, he would have fallen asleep instantly. They reached him somewhat muffled through the thin walls, but clear enough for him to get a grasp of what the man and his dæmon were arguing about.

A weird sense of dejà-vu seized him, as he was reminded of pressing his ear against a half-closed door to better listen to Mr. Cobblepot's dæmon accusing him of being too harsh with him, with Iphigenia fluttering her wings in his face in a vain attempt at persuading him to stop.

"Don't get me wrong, I like the kid as much as you do, but if you think he's your forgiveness ticket to get into Oswald's good graces, then --" Riddler's dæmon was saying. She didn't finish her sentence.

There was a pause, a long stretch of silence that almost had Martin giving in and abandoning himself to sleep. Almost. In retrospect, he was glad he didn't.

"After everything he's done to you, to us, you still care for him," the way she uttered his sentence made it sound like an accusation. Which was a weird thing to do, Martin considered. You don't accuse someone of caring _too much._

"You don't?" Riddler asked.

"We've been over this, Edward," his dæmon replied. "Even if we were somehow able to forgive him, do think he'd want us back? That the Oswald Cobblepot who kept us on display for months inside a gigantic block of ice for all of Gotham to see, would let us back in his life no questions asked? I'm not in denial, you are."

"You're part of me. Either we both are in denial or neither of us is...This -- This doesn't make sense."

After that, the discussion became more heated and significantly more difficult to follow. It delved into the aetiology of people and their souls and what it meant to be the dæmon of a human who wouldn't face reason. Martin's eyelids were starting to grow heavier, so he resolved that there was no use fighting it anymore. Iphigenia was already dozing off on his chest, a ferret curled up into a little ball of brown fur.

The last thing he heard, before drifting to sleep, was Riddler's fox-dæmon saying something that sounded like: "One thing we both agree on – Martin stays out of it. He's a smart kid, it would be a pity if... We have to keep him safe, Oswald or no Oswald."

Riddler let out something that might or might not have been a hum of assent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Ed's dæmon is a red fox named Vera, meaning "truth", also possibly a reference to Vera Miles, the actress who played Lila in Psycho. When Ed adopts his Riddler persona, she begrudgingly allows him to call her "Enigma" for the sake of consistency. She's the only one who's still allowed to call him Edward, instead of Riddler or Ed. She usually channels the opposite side of Ed's personality; logical and careful when he's flaunting the Riddler persona, excitable and outgoing when he's "just Ed".


	3. For Granted Take Me Not

Being alone had never been a problem for Martin.

Iphigenia was all the company he needed; she always did her outmost to keep him entertained, to distract him from the cruel jokes the other kids whispered behind his back. Sometimes, she even managed to make him laugh in the midst of tears. In spite of the unsufferable dullness of his classes and the irritating lack of intelligence his peers wore like some kind of badge of honour, Martin didn’t remember ever feeling bored. Iphigenia was always there, ready to mumble something under her breath that would have him struggling to hold back an amused chuckle.

And even when his dæmon ran out of ideas, the orphanage was still a huge building, full of forbidden rooms, hidden backdoors and mysteries to solve, sure to keep him busy during the long summer afternoons the other kids spent shouting and throwing toys at each other in the courtyard. 

When everything else failed, there was always the library. The nice lady at the counter used to let them sneak in and made no comments on them leafing through ancient-looking tomes for hours on end, until the sharp ring of the bell announcing dinnertime forced them to join their classmates in the canteen. 

The safe house offered no such distraction. It took them less than two hours to explore all the rooms, after Riddler left them on their own devices. Most of them were empty – the only exception was the kitchen, with tall cupboards stacked with all kinds of canned food to ensure they wouldn’t starve during the upcoming weeks.

Martin plucked a knife from the butcher block, observing the faint light filtering through the closed blinds flicker on the blade. He tested it, satisfied to see a droplet of blood blossom on the tip of his finger. Smiling to himself, he walked back to the bedroom and hid it under his pillow.

“Isn’t this a little bit uh – too much?” Iphigenia asked. It was amazing how expressive she could be even in the form of a housecat. Her feline features were twisted in an expression Martin was very familiar with, somewhere between scepticism and concern.

Martin shook his head. If Sofia’s men proved to be as foolish as to try and hunt him down, he would show them some of the tricks Mr. Penguin had taught him. A thought the mere idea – being chased down and kidnapped by armed thugs – would have made most kids his age shake in fear, it filled Martin with excitement, to the point that he almost _wished_ they would just barge in through the door right there and then.

Oh, Mr. Penguin would be so proud of him.

Alas, no-one came looking for him. Not Sofia’s thugs, nor anyone else.

The days at the safe house were long, felt even longer when Riddler didn't visit and they were left alone with the two burly men patrolling the perimeter of the building. They didn't speak, nor did their dog-dæmons, and they hardly ever spared him a glance when they caught him starting from the other side of the window. Martin supposed it had something to do with the orders they had received from Riddler.

Knowing that it was all for their own good didn't make the wait any less frustrating.

"He keeps repeating that Mr. Cobblepot will come to pick us up soon," Iphigenia complained for what felt like the millionth time. "But he never tells us when _soon_ is supposed to be."

She was sitting on Martin's shoulder in the form of a goldfinch, preening her feathers while he leafed through one of the children's quiz books Riddler had brought them. His dæmon's impatience mirrored his own, only she wasn't afraid to vent it out loud.

Iphigenia peered down at the riddle he had been attempting to solve for the past few minutes. "I'm a thing you cannot choose, you're stuck with what you've got. I’m also something one can lose, so for granted take me not...could it be 'home'?"

Martin pondered about her answer for a moment, then shook his head.

"Right," she agreed. "That would be too easy."

Just as they began quarrelling on whether they should keep thinking or skip to the next riddle, the front door slammed open. Startled, Iphigenia changed into a wildcat and jumped forward, claws drawn and brown fur bristling, ready to protect Martin from the intruders. Martin mentally cursed himself when he realised he had left the knife in the bedroom.

"You stay back," Iphigenia admonished him. "I’ll buy us some time to escape!"

Martin was about to protest, when two figures stepped inside. His eyes went wide in surprise.

"Martin!" Mr. Cobblepot gasped, as if unable to believe his own eyes.

Martin rushed forwards, arms wrapping around his middle to hug him as tight as he could. They both stumbled with the force of the movement, yet somehow managed to remain on their feet. Iphigenia changed and changed in a flurry of scales, wings and fur, until she settled for an overexcited puppy running in circles around Adél, tail wagging uncontrollably. Taken aback, the poor penguin-demon could do little more than watch her and try to calm her down with a few soft-spoken words.

"I told you I'd bring him back to you," Riddler said. Martin couldn't tell if he was talking to him or to Mr. Cobblepot, or to the both of them at the same time. It didn't matter.

When he could finally bring himself to break the hug, Riddler offered him a conspiratorial grin and ruffled his hair. Then, as if the gesture had drained him of all his strength, he went incredibly pale. His expression changed, the grin disappearing to be substituted by a pained frown. Martin watched him take in a sharp breath and find support against the doorframe, as if he was about to faint.

Mr. Cobblepot hastened to offer him his arm and it was only thanks to his prompt reaction that Riddler didn’t end up collapsing.

Iphigenia went from barking happily to staring in horror at Riddler. "What’s wrong with him?"

Her question hung in the air, unanswered.

Only then did Martin notice that there was blood on Riddler’s face, and on his suit and one the once pristine collar of his white dress shirt. Despite himself, Martin wrinkled his nose at the metallic smell that surrounded him.

"Help me get him to bed," Mr. Cobblepot urged him.

With Martin's assistance, he managed to walk him through the living room and the short corridor separating them from the spare bedroom, the one he and Iphigenia hadn't claimed for themselves. Riddler’s dæmon followed close behind, whimpering in sympathy with each step he took. As soon as they laid him down above the comforter, she jumped up on the bed and pressed herself close to his chest.

Iphigenia was restless, itching to approach Enigma and ask her what happened, but Martin gestured for her to hold back.

When he looked at Mr. Cobblepot in search of an explanation, he could read the concern on his features, as clear as day. "Come, we should let him rest now."

Martin reluctantly followed him back to the living room.

****

In a desperate attempt at distracting himself from the thought of Riddler lying wounded in the adjacent room, Martin decided to observe Mr. Cobblepot as he moved around the house. His teachers at school had always praised his perceptive nature which helped him realise, in just a handful of minutes, that something about his mentor had changed.

He was thinner, for one. The elegant suit he was wearing hung loose around his body in some places and his piercing blue eyes were sunken in, no doubt the toll of several sleepless nights. After watching him for a while, Martin noticed that there was a falter in his step now, not due to his limp, but rather to an uncharacteristic hesitation that accompanied his every movement. The Mr. Cobblepot he remembered was proud and self-assured, able to make people cower in fear with his presence alone. In short, everything Martin wanted to be when he grew up.

"He was in Arkham," Iphigenia reminded him. "I heard the guards outside talking about it. Riddler helped him break out, or something. That’s why he looks like…well."

_Arkham._

At the mention of the infamous hospital, Martin felt a cold shiver run down his back. He had heard stories about Arkham. As much as he would have liked to dismiss them as nothing but urban legends the older kids at the orphanage used to terrorize their more impressionable classmates, he couldn’t ignore the way his heart started beating faster the more details he remembered about the place.

It was haunted, some said. Others were convinced it was ruled by a mad doctor conducting horrifying experiments on his unwitting patients, creating monsters in the basement of the asylum. Dead bodies brought back to life, living people separated from their dæmons and reduced to an empty yet still breathing shell of their former selves.

He felt Iphigenia shiver at the thought.

Thankfully, that last part wasn't something he had to worry about. Mr. Cobblepot's Adél was still there, right by his side, though she appeared to have gone through some kind of change too. A change that had nothing to do with the horrors they had witnessed in Arkham and everything to do with the man lying in a state of semi-consciousness on the other side of the wall.

Adél watched over Riddler and Enigma like a hawk, there was no other way to describe it. She lingered by the bedroom door, which had been left ajar, even when it meant stretching the bond between her and her human almost to its breaking point. Any further and Martin was sure both she and Mr. Penguin would have collapsed on the floor, gasping and shaking in pain. She waddled back to Mr. Cobblepot only to mutter something like "He's waking up" or "He needs more painkillers". That’s when he excused himself and nearly ran down the corridor to assist him.

Which brought Martin back to Riddler and the sharp twinge of fear he had felt when he had seen him covered in blood.

"Is he going to die?" Iphigenia found enough courage to ask later that evening, when they sat at the dinner table picking through the food one of the two guards had procured for them. The lukewarm Chinese dumplings weren't nearly as tasty as Riddler's cooking.

Mr. Cobblepot blinked at them, startled. He looked at him, then at Iphigenia perched on the back of his seat, now in the form of a black and white magpie. He cast a quick glance at his own dæmon as if to seek confirmation that what he had just heard wasn't only in his head.

"Oh no no," he said. "He's just...He'll get better. He needs time."

Martin chose to believe him. The alternative would have been too much for him to handle.

"It seems to me you've grown quite attached to him," Mr. Cobblepot mused then, offering him a tentative smile. The first Martin had seen on his lips since he and Riddler had stumbled through the doorway that very same morning.

Martin's fingers twitched. A part of him wanted to reach for the notepad hanging around his neck, but something told him that he would have had a hard time writing down an appropriate answer. The remark had been uttered without the faintest trace of accusation, yet he felt guilty for having so blatantly ignored his warnings, forgotten his lessons and let himself be bribed by ice-cream and a few clever riddles.

Looking down at his own plate, he nodded.

"He's been very kind to us," Iphigenia added. It had become so natural for her to speak aloud with Riddler and his dæmon that she didn't think twice about doing it now.

Mr. Cobblepot remained silent for a while. Martin took advantage of the momentary pause to take his pen out of his pocket.

"I'm glad," Mr. Cobblepot went on. "Believe it or not, I wasn't sure I could trust him when he offered to help. I'm sure you remember what I taught you about people who offer you their assistance without asking anything in return."

Martin erased the sentence he had begun to write, ripped the piece of paper and drew a big question mark on the page beneath it. Then he showed it to Mr. Cobblepot.

"Why? Why did he..." He hesitated. His eyes wandered from Martin, to his own dæmon still guarding the bedroom door a few feet away, then back to Martin. "You want to know what happened." Not a question, a statement.

Mr. Cobblepot pushed away his unfinished plate of Chinese food and leaned forwards, resting his elbows on the table.

"Remember what I told you about friendship and trust?" He didn't wait for Martin to answer. "It embarrasses me to admit it, but I may have been wrong. There can be exceptions. They are rare but you should learn to recognise them when you encounter them."

Martin considered his words. Then he scribbled something else on his notepad. This time, the page read the name "Riddler" followed by a smaller question mark. Mr. Cobblepot's lips twitched in a suppressed smile.

"Yes," he said. "But please, don't indulge him with that ridiculous nickname. His name is Edward."

"The point is," the next words didn't come from Mr. Cobblepot, but from his dæmon, which left Martin dumbfounded. He hadn't even heard her approach. She had always been so prim and proper, mindful not to interrupt or overstep during their private lessons in Miss Sophia’s office. Iphigenia, startled as she was, changed a couple of forms before she was able to get a hold of herself. "We trust him. And you can trust him too. He's...like that, now, because he refused to betray us. He went as far as letting himself be tortured to protect us. It was unexpected, enough to persuade Oswald and I to reconsider our relationship with him. Perhaps we've been wrong about him all along."

The answer wasn't straightforward as Martin and Iphigenia would have liked but, before they had the time to ask for further explanations, Mr. Cobblepot got up from his seat and urged him to do the same.

"Come on, time to go to bed. A good night's sleep will do us all some good."

Martin lay awake on his bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling to study the shadows cast in the half-darkness by the headlights of the rare cars passing outside. So much for his good night's sleep.

At first, Iphigenia tried to persuade him to just get under the covers and try closing his eyes, but she found herself giving up when she realised that all her efforts were bound to be in vain.

There were too many thoughts chasing each other inside his head, starting with Mr. Cobblepot’s unexpected statement about trust. After all the emphasis he had put on the importance of always watching his back, from allies and enemies alike, it seemed unlikely that he would backtrack so suddenly. Then again, Adél had hinted at Riddler’s involvement in Mr. Cobblepot’s change of heart and he _had_ been fretting over him the whole day.

Bur Mr. Penguin didn’t have friends, that much he had made painstakingly clear. Friends were a nuisance at best, a crippling weakness at worst.

_What does this mean?_ Martin thought to himself, as he absentmindedly listened to the wind blowing outside, bringing him the sounds of police sirens in the distance.

"They’re like Brendon and Kathy when they had a crush on each other," Iphigenia remarked with a quiet chuckle, which soon turned into a yawn. She had abandoned her efforts and was now laying by Martin's side on the too-soft pillow. "Remember when everyone thought they hated each other because they kept fighting over the toys in the playground, but then they suddenly became a couple? And the teacher told us that sometimes people are mean to each other to attract attention? They remind me of Mr. Penguin and Riddler. It’s so stupid, though. If you like someone, just tell them. Aren’t adults supposed to be smart, anyway?"

Martin laughed and shook his head, dismissing his dæmon's absurd idea.

They jumped out of bed as soon as the first rays of sunlight made their way through the shutters, having slept scarcely more than a couple of hours. When they stepped yawning into the living room, they were confronted with quite the strange picture.

Riddler and Mr. Cobblepot were already up – or maybe, Martin considered, they hadn't slept at all.

Either way, they were now standing in the middle of the living room, talking in hushed tones. At least, Mr. Cobblepot was talking. Though his voice was too low for Martin or his dæmon to hear, it seemed to be something very important. Martin's eyes flickered down to see Riddler clasping one of Mr. Cobblepot's hands in his own, so tight that his knuckles were going white, a sharp contrast with his bright green suit, still stained with specks of dried blood from the day before.

Their dæmons lounged at their feet. It took Martin a moment to realise that Adél wasn’t, in fact, trying to peck Enigma to death but rather she was combing through her reddish fur with her beak in some sort of bizarre and maybe a little clumsy bonding ritual.

_Preening._ That was the word he had read on the ornithology book that had kept him entertained for an entire afternoon, once. It had been quite the interesting read. In just a few hours, Martin had learned a whole array of amazing facts about various North American species of birds, including how most of them often helped brush each other's feathers, a gesture that was simultaneously utilitarian and a way to strengthen their emotional connection with each other. He didn't know if the same held true for penguins, or even for penguin _dæmons_ , but...

"You see?" Iphigenia said, effectively derailing his train of thought. "I wasn't that far off."

The fox-dæmon's ears perked up and suddenly there were four pairs of eyes staring at them.

"I hope we didn't scare you," Enigma said, when she saw them lingering on the doorway. "We’re feeling a little better today, but Ed – I mean, Riddler still has a hard time speaking. That dentist really did a number on him."

Martin shook his head.

"You didn't scare us," Iphigenia clarified. "We were just worried."

"Understandable," Mr. Cobblepot said, approaching him to offer him an encouraging pat on the back. Martin didn't miss how he seemed almost reluctant to leave Riddler's side. "God knows I was too. We're going back to Gotham, Martin. I wanted you to stay here a little longer while Edward and I figured some things out, but..."

"But I convinced them it was a stupid idea," Enigma explained, earning a side-eye from Adél. "Oswald has men, weapons and connections aplenty, it won't be too difficult to keep you safe once he gets a firmer grip on his old empire. Besides, I can only imagine how bored you must have been these last few weeks. Leaving you here to die of lack of mental stimulation was out of the question."

Martin and Iphigenia exchanged a glance, surprised and not surprised at the same time at how easily Riddler's dæmon had been able to read through them.

"Assuming that is what you want, of course," Mr. Cobblepot added. "I won't blame you if you'd rather stay away from Gotham for a while. Perhaps forever."

This time, Martin was quicker than his own dæmon. Iphigenia had hardly had enough time to open her beak to respond, that he was already turning his notepad around.

_We don't want to leave you._

The "don't" was underlined for emphasis. In spite of the pain, Riddler let out a small laugh. Martin even spotted a relieved smile on Mr. Cobblepot's face, as his dæmon mumbled an "I told you".

Riddler gave him a thumbs up from behind Mr. Cobblepot's back.

"A family," Iphigenia said.

Martin furrowed his brows in a silent request for clarification.

"The riddle we were trying to solve the other day," she explained. "I just realised – the answer is family."

Martin considered it for a while.

He watched Mr. Cobblepot and Riddler wander around the safe house, collecting everything they needed for their trip back to Gotham. He saw the way Mr. Cobblepot's hand lingered on Riddler's his shoulder, his forearm, his lower back. He saw how Riddler didn't notice, or at least didn't mind, all the while his fox-dæmon danced in tight circles around a visibly annoyed Adél, who only made small, half-hearted attempts at keeping her distance.

He was reminded of Iphigenia's earlier musings, the thing about kids in the playground pretending to hate each other to hide their crushes. If the night before he had found the picture somewhat ridiculous, especially in relation to two grown and fearsome men like Riddler and Mr. Penguin, he now found himself doubting. Maybe Iphigenia's analogy, as unbelievable as it was, held some truth to it.

"The car is waiting outside. Are you ready to go, Martin?" Mr. Cobblepot asked him, shaking him from his thoughts.

Martin smiled.

_A family._

Yes, it sounded about right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s it! Thanks to everyone who left kudos and comments, it means a lot!
> 
> I’ll probably go back to revisit the concept of daemons in Gotham sometime, simply because I love daemon AUs and I still have so many ideas I want to elaborate upon. When that will be, though, it’s up to anyone’s guess ahahahah   
> In the meantime, thanks for sticking with us ‘till the end! :D

**Author's Note:**

> \- Martin's daemon, still unsettled, is named Iphigenia after the mythical daughter of king Agamemnon. According to the myth, she was sacrificed by her own father in order to appease the goddess Artemis and let him and his army depart to wage war against Troy. Symbolism, amirte? The name also means "of royal birth".
> 
> \- Oswald's daemon is, you guessed it, a penguin. Specifically, an Adélie penguin, one of the most vicious species out there, with a penchant for stealing food and pebbles from each other and smacking with their flippers any other animal that dares intrude their territory. Ed thinks that Oswald's mother calling her such without having possibly know what she would settle as is a very funny coincidence. Adél is a Hungarian name of Germanic origin that means "noble, graceful". 
> 
> ALSO, shoutout to Anonamika for helping me come up with the names for some of our beloved characters' daemons!


End file.
